


Contego

by ghostboi



Series: Graveyard Digger, Coffin Case Sinner [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Serial Killer Dean, pre-serial killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:56:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4844945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostboi/pseuds/ghostboi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is an asshole, and Dean's protective of his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contego

**Author's Note:**

> [Pre-Serial Killer days.]  
> The Latin word for Protect is Contego.   
> Contego is defined as: to cover, shield, protect, defend.
> 
> [forgive if my usage of the latin word is incorrect. it has been years beyond years since I've taken latin & I can't recall _any_ of it. ha.]

Sam Winchester was sitting on his bed, reading his history assignment, when the shouting started. He raised his head, worried gaze going to the door: their father had been drinking again. 

Sam hesitated before laying the book aside and slipping out of the bed. He padded across the room and cracked open the door; he could hear his brother’s voice, the tone calm and reasoning, though he couldn’t make out the words.

The boy listened for a minute, wincing as John Winchester’s voice rose again. The man wanted Dean, his sixteenth birthday one month gone, to take him out for more alcohol. Dean, for his part, was trying to persuade the man to stay home and get some rest. 

Sam caught the words “useless fuck” and “stupid bastard” from his father, and his brow creased in a frown. Dean’s voice again, that same calming, soothing tone.

Rage in John’s voice as the man barked, “You don’t tell me what to do, you little fucker.”  
Sam flinched, startled, as the sound of a fist striking flesh carried through the tiny house. He cringed, biting his bottom lip hard, as he heard the sound again. The third blow carried a sound of pain with it, and Sam jerked open the door and ran out of the bedroom.

“Leave him alone!” 

The almost-twelve-year-old was shaking, fists clenched at his side, as he threw the words at this father. John was holding Dean by his shirt collar, other fist raised and poised to strike again. Dean’s mouth and nose were bleeding, red droplets dripping off his chin.

Two sets of eyes – one startled and green, and one blood-shot but blue - had turned to him upon his entry into the kitchen. Now both stared at him, Dean’s eyes wide and John’s full of rage.

Sam swallowed hard as John released Dean, shoved him and sent him stumbling backward, before turning to face him. “What the hell did you just say?”

“I said leave him alone,” Sam raised his chin, managed to keep the tremor of fear out of his voice. He stood his ground as John took two steps in his direction.

He blinked as Dean moved suddenly between him and John, blocking his view of the other man. “Go, Sammy,” his brother’s voice was gravelly, laced with pain and what sounded like fear. Not fear for himself, but for his little brother. Sam stared at him, assessed the bleeding nose and mouth, the already blackening eye. He swallowed again as Dean repeated, a plea in his voice now, “Go. Go to the bedroom, lock the door.” 

Dean turned to face John as their father reached them. The older boy reached back to shove at Sam, even as he challenged the drunk man to draw his attention from Sam, “That all you got, old man?” 

Sam turned and fled the kitchen, submitting to Dean’s plea and gestures, as the other boy stepped back against him, reached back to shove him lightly again. He fled because he knew Dean wouldn’t back down if he thought Sam was in danger. He would continue to challenge and distract John from the younger boy and he wouldn’t stop until he was beaten unconscious or their father passed out in a drunken stupor. 

He knew Dean would do whatever he had to do to protect him, so he fled to the bedroom. He flipped the lock on the door, then jumped on Dean’s bed and buried his head beneath Dean’s pillow to muffle his sobs. 

Sam was leaning against the bedroom door a short while later. The house had fallen silent minutes before, and now he was sitting on the floor, biting his nails. His head jerked up as he heard a soft tap on the door; he was unlocking it even as he heard Dean’s muffled, “Sammy.” 

Dean stumbled into the room and Sam closed and locked the door behind him. He was at his brother’s side in seconds, slipping beneath the older teen’s arm to offer support. He helped Dean to the bed, bit his lip as the older boy laid back on it with a soft groan of pain.

Blood streaked Dean’s face and mouth, his chin and throat. He had a cut from John’s ring and a large bruise on his left cheek, and his right eye was already purple-black. Sam pushed up his shirt with gentle motions and found that the older brother’s sides and stomach matched his eye: purple-black bruises forming already. 

“Dean,” his voice was a trembling whisper, and green eyes shifted to look at him.  
“’m okay, Sammy,” Dean tried to smile at him but it was more like a grimace, “’m okay.”   
Sam shook his head, whispered, “Be right back” and crossed to the door. He opened it a crack, peered down the hall: when he found it empty, he darted quietly out of the room and down the hallway, to the bathroom. Once there, he snatched several washcloths off a small shelf and wet them with warm water. He grabbed the first aid kit from the shelf and darted back up the hallway, to the bedroom. He closed and locked the door behind him before crossing to Dean.

He cleaned the blood off his brother’s face and throat with the washcloth and covered the cut on his cheek with Neosporin and a band-aid. A pout and “puppy eyes”, as Dean called them, convinced his brother to take several ibuprofen for pain. He laid the first aid kit and the bloody wash clothes on the night-stand beside the bed, and turned back to the older boy.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” his whispered, tears pricking his eyes as his brother tried to shift to a more comfortable position and winced in pain. 

“Not your fault, Sammy,” his brother managed a smile this time, raised a hand to reach for him, “Not your fault that he’s an asshole.”   
Sam climbed onto the bed next to him, gently cuddled up beside him. He laid his head against Dean’s shoulder as the older boy began to play with his hair. 

Sam raised his eyes to his brother as Dean told him, voice solemn, “If he ever hurts you like this, I’ll kill him.” He nodded and leaned in to press his lips against Dean’s collar bone. The older boy exhaled, arm tightening around him a bit, before relaxing. 

He was brushing his fingers through Dean’s short-cut hair when Dean dozed off a bit later. Sam glanced at the door as he heard heavy footsteps moving through the house: he tensed as they moved past the bedroom, and relaxed as he heard them tromp to the bathroom at the hall’s end. Another tense moment as they passed back by minutes later; Sam breathed a sigh of relief as they kept going, toward the other side of the house.

He sat up, careful not to disturb his brother, and tugged the blanket from the foot of the bed to cover Dean with it. When he was satisfied that Dean wasn’t going to get chilled in his sleep, he reached over and opened the nightstand drawer. Sam reached in and retrieved the knife Dean had put there when they first moved in, and slid it beneath the pillow. 

His eyes flicked to the door again.   
Just in case.


End file.
